


28 Ways You're Fragged

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-25
Updated: 2012-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:07:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The "You're Fragged!" meme + various characters/prompts: 1-500 words on how many which ways from today they are totally boned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	28 Ways You're Fragged

**Script Title:** “28 Ways You’re Fragged!”  
 **Warning to Audience:** Death, angst, torture, sex, and implications therein.  
 **Show Rating:** R?  
 **Continuity Stage:** G1, IDW  
 **Theatre Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Acting Motivation:** Community Prompts + the "You're Fragged!" Meme:

_Give me one or more characters, and I will give you anywhere from 1-500 words on how many which ways from today they are totally boned._

**Characters/Prompts:**   
1\. Alpha Trion  
2\. On _laught_  
3\. Mirage  
4\. Prowl  
5\. Arcee  
6\. First Aid & Vortex  
7\. Bluestreak  
8\. Hound  
9\. Beachcomber  
10\. Swindle & Smokescreen  
11\. Octane & Metroplex  
12\. Motormaster (bonus: Grimlock)  
13\. Wheeljack  
14\. Ironhide  
15\. Astrotrain & Skywarp  
16\. Starscream  
17\. Barricade  
18\. “White feather”  
19\. "Have fun with your empty base and raging insanity!" (Agent Washington, Red Vs Blue)  
20\. “Lava”  
21\. “A stolen moment”  
22\. “ **Scenario:** What's behind that door that shouldn't be opened?”  
23\. “ _Bounce_ by Bon Jovi”  
24\. Ratchet  
25\. Optimus & Jazz  
26\. Prowl & Starscream  
27\. Kup/Arcee: “Perfection”  
28\. Springer: “getting into trouble”

[* * * * *]

 

**1.**  
It was the only sacrifice worth anything the old mech could give: the last guttering sparks of life in his chamber, and the Key coded throughout his aged body.

A3 had lived too long to refuse the bitter cup of truth pressed on him. The time for an advisor was past. His body was too feeble to help the Autobots in any other way. Wisdom could not reconstruct a Key, nor knowledge turn back time. He could not fly and fight, and the situation clearly called for what he couldn't do. 

The only advice left to give was to himself. He took cold comfort in knowing only a wise mech would take such advice. There was one bitter truth, one thing he could do, and he drained that Grail to the dregs. 

Alpha Trion stepped forward into Vector Sigma -- and ceased to be.

 

**2.**  
The Combaticon commander put his face in his hands as if he couldn't bear to look any longer.

"He's not...that bad," Swindle said, forced-cheerful. He himself squinted at the cherry-red and pink mech like he was looking into the sun. "A good target, if nothing else."

Blast Off seemed sunk in shock. Apathy had been abandoned in favor of dull horror as he stared at his own alternate reality rip-off. Blast In grinned back in helpless happiness; someone had asked him to shut up earlier. Asked via a welding torch. Blast In didn't seem to hold a grudge for his sealed lips, at least.

Bargain gave his doppleganger a nod. "It could be worse."

"How could it be worse?" Onslaught asked quietly from behind his hand. He didn't look up as Fighter and Brawl whooped past in a tank race. 

Onlaught bounced on his heels and looked to Bargain. Bargain looked to Swindle. Swindle glanced aside to Vortex, who just looked left out. "Trust us."

 

**3.**  
Invisibility only helped so much.

Mirage stayed very, very still. He was pressed against the wall and knew he was unseen, but that wouldn't get him through the open airlock. He'd been waiting hours for someone to come through it so he could slip out of it. The spy mission had been a complete success, right up until this moment.

One of Sinnertwin's heads dipped, sniffing curiously, and being invisible wasn't enough.

 

**4.**   
_I do not wish to be a slave._

The cable connected to his helm didn't listen. It simply sought out the personality chip that had generated the wish and burnt it out. 

_I do not want to be a slave._

The slow snake of an invasive probe sought want, and it was also burnt out.

_I am not a slave._

Self-identification was core part of basic personality programming. The cable slithered its destruction through Prowl's head, one thought at a time, and nothing was left in its wake. When the Autobot's optics lit again, Shockwave took his chin in hand.

"What are you?" the Decepticon asked.

Blue optics flicked to the purple symbols still fresh on the backs of each hand, the tagged cuff around one ankle. His battle computer and logic processors, unchecked by personality, weighed the collar and new set of downloaded directives.

The answer seemed obvious. "I am a slave."

 

**5.**  
When it came to catering to humanity's strange whims, the Autobots tried. They really did. That didn't mean they necessarily enjoyed it.

So when the request for a visit to the local St. Mary's School for Young Ladies went through, Arcee turned off her comm. suite and started hiding.

Unfortunately, pink stood out like a sore thumb when that's what her commander wanted to see and send out to play with the girls.

 

**6.**  
"We are so slagged," Swindle whispered, and Vortex could only nod.

For one thing, it was the only movement the circuit-block allowed. For another, well, it was true. The little medic perched on top of him was going to _hate_ himself when he regained his senses, but that didn’t comfort Vortex. Likelihood of the Autobot ever regaining his senses? Fairly low. Likelihood of Vortex enjoying the next few vorns of his existence under the medic’s tender mercies? Even lower.

When the Combaticons had killed the Protectobot commander, theory went that Blades would be dangerous. Theory had it that the rest of the combiner team would collapse. Best case scenario was the possible suicide of one or more of the surviving team members. The Combaticons had set Laserbeak to watch for the crazed Autobot helicopter and thought nothing more of it. They hadn't thought to watch for mad little medics prepared to switch sides for a – by Megatron’s standards, anyway -- reasonable price. 

By the spiky purple face still raw and weeping on First Aid's mask, the Combaticons were going to pay for their crime.

 

**7.**  
Starscream slammed his fist against the door one more time in frustrated anger, then turned on the Autobot nervously standing on the other side of the room. Although the volume differed considerably, neither of them had shut up for a second since the Decepticons had gotten drunk enough to shut them into this room together. 

The irony was not lost on either of them.

Fleeing was out. Bluestreak was a prisoner, and at the moment, Starscream wasn't much better. Their guns had been stripped off, so that left hand-to-hand fighting. Bluestreak was far out of his weight class, there. Megatron had wanted to make a point about Starscream's nonstop shrieking commentary, but Bluestreak was going to pay the price. 

Unless, that was, they were both just spiteful enough to not give the old buckethead what he expected.

A different pitch entered the constant words, and Starscream stalked the little Autobot -- who made a strategic retreat berth-ward.

 

**8.**  
You think skunks are bad? They emit chemicals, nothing more. Unpleasant to some, but just substance analysis for mechanical beings.

There were creatures in the universe with far more horrible defense mechanisms. Like, say, chemical emitters laden with nanotech designed to crawl up sensors and _really_ make things nasty.

Hound ran. Not fast enough, but he sure tried!

 

**9.**  
The giants never stopped to analyze the insect-small creatures under their feet. They simply swept aside attacks with horrible corrosive chemicals designed to destroy or repel the attacking mechs. They subdued, killed, and even domesticated any mechs large enough to threaten them. 

They crushed Cybertron underfoot and casually used the planet without care for anyone else living on it. Yet still, Beachcomber couldn't make the others understand how it happened on other worlds every day.

 

**10.**  
The canyon twisted, rocks tearing at his tires, but Smokescreen flung himself through it like his life depended on it. 

It did. Behind him, the distinctive sound of transformation signaled Brawl getting around another corner too sharp for a tank. "Heh heh heh...coming for you, Autobot," the Decepticon crooned gleefully.

_*"Shame about that unpaid debt,"*_ Swindle said over commlink. The conmech's voice was conversational, and all the more frightening for it. _*"I'm sure human accounts don't even notice when you hack the numbers to cover your gambling losses, but I'm no human. You messed with my numbers, Autobot."*_

_*"I don't owe a Decepticon anything!"*_ Smokescreen hissed back, staying quiet on the outside even as an outcropping took one of his mirrors clear off. He needed distance to climb out of this Primus-fragged deathtrap!

_*"But you do, Smokie. My business is a legitimate one according to the laws of this world. It's not my fault you didn't check on just who you were cheating when you laid your bets and tried to erase the losses afterward."*_

Smokescreen cut a corner too close and tumbled sidelong, fetching up against the canyon wall with a roof-crumpling _whump_. It dazed him for a critical minute. He almost didn't transform and dart out of the way in time before the rocks exploded above him. 

"Keep running!" Brawl crowed, and Smokescreen had no choice but to obey. Up above, far above, Blast Off was waiting to pinpoint the distinctive energy signature of his energy-scrambler. Besides, tank vs. car? Smokescreen didn't like those odds. At all.

_*"I can pay,"*_ he bargained grimly as he ran for all he was worth.

_*"You know, you really can't. I checked your accounts. Seems you're not good for the money you owe."*_ Swindle _tsk_ ed. _*"That's the problem with you amateurs playing around with electronic transfers. Not having to produce the money backing the numbers on the screen seems like a good thing until, well, you do. I make be a swindler, but even I know better than to assume the humans won't demand cash up front eventually."*_ His voice turned ugly. _*"Just your luck to get caught by me first, that's all."*_

"Booyah!"

Another explosion, and now Smokescreen was limping. Frantic and limping, and he had no reach on comms. No rescue in sight, but he didn't understand the point. Blast Off had a targeting system that didn’t _require_ a weapon’s energy signature to lock onto. Why would the Combaticons be toying with him this way?

_*"What do you want?!"*_

_*"Oh, Smokester. You know what I want."*_

He had to pause, leaning heavily against a boulder as his vents wheezed. His systems couldn’t take much more of this! _*"...you already know I don't have the money."*_

_*"No."*_ Swindle's voice gloated straight through happy and into cardiac-inducing GreaseLand. _*"But the Autobots do. I've been explaining the situation to the_ Ark _since we got ahold of you. If Prowl gets around to coughing up the credits before Brawl catches you, we'll let you go. Lesson learned, eh?"*_

Meaning that the Autobots knew everything already. Oh, no. A sick worm of feeling wriggled into his tanks and eeled up toward his spark chamber.

_*"I'd keep running, Smokescreen. Wouldn't want Brawl to blow holes in that cheating spark of yours before Prowl bails you out, hmmm? You want to be able to limp on home to your rescuers, now don't you?"*_

Smokescreen wasn't so sure about that.

 

**11.**  
"You are a neglectful bunch of fragging idiots without the common decency of **Galvatron** ," Octane grumbled. 

The tall triple-changer stomped around the giant plastic swimming pool shell, examining it from every angle. He gave it a few kicks, as if testing the structural integrity. The Autobots had supplied it upon demand, but this was the best they could do on short notice. Which is was. Octane had gone straight from mild inquiry to Stampede of Raging Angries within a few breems, and it was actually kind of terrifying. The triple-changer was such an easy-going mech that sometimes people forgot he’d been a Decepticon for the majority of the war, and it wasn’t just because he knew everybody who was anybody in the ranks. Neutrality suited him right up until he got peeved, and then he was froth-at-the-mouth mad. 

When the makeshift ‘cup’ passed inspection, it actually seemed to piss Octane off even more. "Self-absorbed bastards who use a mech and never even consider his **needs**." He glared in the general direction of the gathered Autobots. "Hey, I've got an idea! Let's stick a city-former in the middle of a planet bursting with energy and **never once offer him the good stuff**. Great idea, huh? Morons!”

Arcee and Springer fidgeted, feeling less like they were guards on the Decepticon refugee and more like spectators at a well-deserved dressing-down. Kup looked vaguely embarrassed by the accusations, mostly because they were well-founded. Ultra Magnus and Rodimus Prime were looking everywhere but at the rogue Decepticon ranting at them -- well, everywhere but up at the city-former in question. 

Metroplex stayed conspicuously silent. It wasn't a support of Octane's mutters and occasional yells, but it wasn't denial, either. 

That really only made the Autobots feel even guiltier. The city-former continually pushed his own needs aside. They knew that. They were ashamed now because they realized how they’d _allowed_ him to bypass his own needs. What made it worse was that it took a _Decepticon_ (okay, technically a war refugee) walking into Autobot City and cooing at the walls to wake them the slag up to how...er, neglectful they were being.

"I miss taking care of Trypty-baby," Octane grumbled. "At least I never had to worry that he was letting anyone push him around." 

He shot another glare at the squirming Autobots and transformed grumpily. A hose snaked out of his holding tank and writhed up into the swimming pool. There was a pause, and then the rich pink of energon began gushing into the empty pool.

Despite the size of Octane's tanks, the resulting ‘cup’ of high grade was barely more than a mouthful for Metroplex. But by the look on the city-former's face when he slowly sipped it, that was enough.

 

**12.**  
The Autobot roared flame and stomped forward toward the dazed truck lying twisted by the highway. “Me Grimlock king!”

"No..."

It was bad enough that Motormaster had crashed. That happened sometimes. It happened especially when one was a large semi-truck with a hefty trailer. 'Heavy in the aft' translated to 'jackknifing and rolling' when said semi was involved in combat. That was just a fact of life.

However, when the King of the Road was crashed by a T-Rex on rollerskates, that went far beyond regular combat. That didn’t just _happen_. 

Motormaster had a horrible sinking feeling that he wasn't getting out of this accident with his title intact.

 

**13.**  
So.

This was the afterlife. The Forever After. The Well of Sparks. 

Wheeljack knew that because he knew everything. The entirety of the universe was laid out to him. An inquiring mind wasn't even required; he just _knew_. He knew it all. Everything. No questions needed, because the answers were there for the taking. That's what dying got a mech: the end of all mysteries. There were no new discoveries and no need for exploration. Only the living were blind to the true wonders of the cosmos. Only the living had to struggle and push to open their optics.

He even already knew the results of trying to go back. There was nothing the inventor did not already know.

For eternity.

 

**14.**  
At least it was pretty. Lots of different colors spewing in light and violent sound in every direction. Ooo, that was a nice one. Good flare on it. 

He dodged. 

Huh. Some shrapnel, too. 

Ironhide sighed his vents, then hastily closed them against the clogging black smoke of burning ammunition. So much for his favorite firearms -- and his dignity. It was going to suck vacuum explaining how the Autobots' Weapons Master had been foolish enough to store loaded guns under his berth...

 

**15.**  
Static made itself known. Eventually, it separated into regular optical feed. It took a while, however. Skywarp blinked the last of it away groggily and tried to process what he was looking at. It looked like -- oh.

He righted himself, propping his elbow on the floor and stretching out the kink in his neck. Cables unkinked reluctantly, cold-hardened and stiff. He'd been slumped over like that a long while.

Long enough that his fuel gauge was alarmingly low. Skywarp ran the math and scowled. There was a weird variance in his energy levels that not even self-repair for account for, but...he'd been out for almost a stellar-cycle since the battle. That was well within the realm of Not Good.

It felt like his vocalizer was stuffed with cotton batting, but self-repair informed him it was actually gummed lubricant. His systems were clearing it, but it made his voice garble oddly over the hiss of the open network.

"...'stro'rain?"

"About time you woke up," Astrotrain rumbled back. 

Skywarp glanced around the dark cockpit, but even with the static gone he couldn't see anything. The control panel had no power or lights active. This also was Not Good. "Whazz -- whass goin' on? We win?"

"No," the triple-changer said shortly, cutting off his stab at hope. "We did not. Now listen, idiot. I don't like you, and I've never liked you."

"Love you 'oo."

"Shut up." Astrotrain's harmonic voice lost layers over internal comm., and never more than when he was dead serious. Skywarp shut up. "My entire back half is slag. I have no propulsion, and self-repair can't fix me. It emergency-kickstarted me out of statis, but that's the extent of what I can do on my own." The already grave tone dropped further. "No one's responded to my beacon, if it's even transmitting. I can't tell."

The gum loosened, and Skywarp coughed it clear. "So, what, you need me to fix you?" The dramatics seemed a little unnecessary, but Astrotrain had always been a fragger.

"I don't have that kind of time," Astrotrain denied. "Look, you piece of rusted waste metal, I brought you out of statis -- "

"You did that?" Startled, Skywarp checked his logs. Sure enough, the fuel levels he'd assumed gave him a timeline had been topped off from an even lower level a few breems ago. No wonder the math had been weird. "Why?"

"If you'd shut up," the shuttle hissed irately, "I'll tell you." He paused, apparently gathering frayed patience. "We're being pulled into a black hole. My systems boosted me out of statis, but I have no means to move myself any longer. You're space-flight capable, but your puny engine couldn't possibly reach escape velocity."

Oh. "So why'd you wake me up?" Skywarp asked, voice small as that sank in. "Misery loves company?"

" **Idiot** ," Astrotrain burst out. "I'm dead already, I know that, but **you** have a functioning fold-space warp drive. I brought you back online to get the frag out of me!"

...oh. "I don't have the energy for a warp," Skywarp admitted quietly.

"I don't need energy anymore, idiot," the triple-changer gritted out.

He shrank down against the wall, feeling panic and humility crush him like the oncoming black hole. "...my warp's got a distance limit."

"Would you rather," Astrotrain grated, level and hateful, "die cowering inside me, or die trying to live?"

It wasn't much of a choice. What kept him hunched and silent was the fact that the other Decepticon hadn't needed to give him that choice at all. As Skywarp hooked up and drained Astrotrain of everything he could, that fact fluttered around the bottom of his spark chamber uneasily. Still, he couldn't make himself say words of gratitude out loud. 

But he did hesitate and put a hand on the wall, leaning it to place a kiss as soft as despair on the cold gray surface where Astrotrain was no longer capable of feeling it.

And then Skywarp warped away into nothing.

 

**16.**  
Starscream came online slowly. Too slowly. He knew there was something dragging on his systems even before he started getting sensor reports.

Not as many as he should have gotten. He frowned to himself, trying to flex fingers and arms that weren't responding. His wings felt...odd. They were pained, but almost as if the sensors were feeding him old data. There was no sensation below his knees as well. That was not good.

When his optics finally booted, he could see his wings nailed to the wall opposite, and he began to get an idea of how bad it really was.

 

**17.**  
"Wonder what happened?" one human male was saying. The faint sensor-ghosts of palms registered on the crumpled sheet that had been his hood. It – he -- was touching him.

"Got into an accident," the other human within audio range responded. 

"Huh. Shot up some, too." The nauseating feeling of fingers probing through the holes in his armor tormented Barricade, but there was nothing he could do. He was locked up, locked down, and more vulnerable than he'd ever been in his life.

Which is why the filthy human got away with slapping his trunk. "Well, makes sense. The PD don't send us one-a their rides unless she ain't gonna ride again."

_She?_ Humans had strange gender conventions. Most of their vehicles were ‘its’. When a vehicle with a gender finally came around, they still screwed gender up.

He was aware he was thinking of stupid things because he was powerless to do anything else, but thinking didn't keep him from hearing the scraping clinks. The tow-line around his twisted axle hauled him inexorable forward over…scrap metal? His shredded tires weren’t transmitting accurate information from the blown sensors anymore. Hmmph. Wonderful. The tow truck had been indignity enough. What were the humans inflicting on him now?

"Kinda sad, if ya ask me," the first human said. The affectionate pat on his hood came again, and then the human walked away. "Seems a shame such a shiny girl like that got used up so quick."

"They send us the ones that can't be salvaged," the other grunted. "She did her time as a car."

"Yeah, guess so."

Barricade felt horror drop straight into his empty tanks as he finally connected the conversations from highway to tow truck to junkyard, but the compactor had already started.

 

**18.**  
The white plume trembled, either from her hand shaking or the hot air venting from the massive machine towering over her.

The mechanism frowned, green lines of foreign glyphs running up the inside of one crimson optic as he researched the symbol. She knew he got her message when the surprise spread over his face.

“You think I’m a coward? I?” Starscream laughed, and she prepared to die because killing the messenger was what cowards did. Instead, he bent and picked her up ungently, but with a passing care for her organic body. “You believe **I** am a coward?”

“Everyone says so,” she said, and her voice was as steady as her shaking allowed. “If you were brave, you’d have enlisted with the Autobots.”

“Everyone.” The huge helm tilted to one side, those glyphs running again as he accessed the human networks. “Interesting. Your definition of bravery is the Autobots. Are there no coward Autobots? The Decepticons conquer. How can conquers all be cowards, and every mech opposed to them be brave?” The glyphs ran and ran, continual scrolling lines of green, and his amusement grew behind the display. “’Everyone’ says to sympathize with the weaker combatant as well, if I understand ‘rooting on the underdog’ correctly. If I am a coward, should you not praise me for fighting despite my weakness? I am afraid, yet I fight.”

That…wasn’t right, but she couldn’t quite put into words why. “That’s not what I mean,” she said quietly, but she couldn’t say what it was she really meant. His argument confused her.

“Bravery,” he said, and it wasn’t a mechanical voice box giving his tone the unnatural clipped tone this time, “is doing something even when it scares you. I would be a fool not to be frightened of combat. My courage, however, has been sufficient to last me this far in a war longer and wider reaching than your entire species.” He looked up, scanning the distance where the sound of explosions had prompted her silly message-carrying. When he looked down, his smile was sly. “So, human. I have watched your ‘brave’ Autobots run from battle. They have run from me many times.”

He set her down and transformed into a fighter jet. The yellow glass of his cockpit opened invitingly. “This is your chance to witness my ‘cowardice,’ human. How brave are **you?** ”

In her hand, fear-sweat stuck the white feather to her palm.

 

**19.**  
He was a great leader. A wise leader, a glorious leader. A leader beyond compare. 

His orders echoed through the empty halls, and they respected him. His towering rages inspired corpses piled on the floor, and they feared him. His cannon shot the stale air of Chaar, and the planet was wounded. 

Galvatron ruled the Decepticon base. Alone. 

And he was a great leader. 

 

**20.**   
“Curiosity killed the feline,” Perceptor murmured, and shuffled his feet closer together.

The outcropping was small, and growing smaller. It barely stood above the lava flow, and it wouldn’t for much longer. Perceptor’s weight was slowly crushing it downward into the superheated rock. The rock of the lava tube surrounded him on all sides, reflecting the heat like a kiln oven, and it had begun to melt the flimsy casing of his altmode when he’d tried transforming to decrease his mass. The slagged pieces of his altmode ached sharply, but the build-up of heat was beginning to make more circuitry ache as badly.

Not much longer. 

_*”Perceptor, hold on, we’re coming!”*_

“I am aware of your current timetable,” the scientist said aloud for his own benefit as well as speaking to the Autobots who weren’t going to make it in time. This planet was perfectly capable of catching its inhabitants by surprise on a daily basis. He’d been arrogant to assume his superior processing capacity made him wiser than humanity’s amassed volcanology studies. Scientific curiosity would kill the microscope.

His right foot slid as the rock it stood on suddenly crumpled, unsupported, into the lava flow. Now he stood on one foot, arms outstretched for balance. But not for much longer.

 

**21.**  
Every mech dies alone. Even Optimus Prime.

Despite being surrounded by friends, despite the presence of the Matrix of Leadership inside him, there was a sudden gaping loneliness around Optimus’ mind. It was more of a comfort than he’d ever suspected it’d be. He hadn’t been alone, truly separate from everyone and everything, since Alpha Trion placed the Matrix inside him. He didn’t regret his reformat from Orion Pax into the Prime, but…he’d missed having thoughts all his own.

The Matrix had chosen his successor in the insecure-but-cocky soldier standing to one side, but for the first time in his Primacy, Optimus was making a choice for himself. Thinking for only himself sounded selfish, but he made this choice with best intentions for the friends and faction he left behind. It was Orion Pax’s last moment of living, and he stole the space of a dying breath to use his own judgment. Against the will of the powerful icon he passed on, in that instant of separation he handed the Matrix to Ultra Magnus. 

Moment over, he died before he knew the results of his decision.

 

**22.**  
There were flat, uninformative files available on the prisoners locked up behind the doors. They said next to nothing beyond name, level of danger, and schedule for fueling. Inevitably, the level was ‘very dangerous,’ and the schedule was during the on-shift when there were far more guards about.

Had this particular guard been more involved in the network of gossip, he might have heard the whispers. The warnings might have been passed on. He was, however, a slightly shy mech who’d taken the off-shift because he liked being around fewer people. This section of the lock-up had thick doors and lots of cameras, but not many actual mechs patrolling. He liked it that way. 

It left him curious, which wasn’t so likeable. Most of the doors had slide-slat openings allowing him to peer inside. The prisoners rarely reacted to being stared at, but he could sometimes get a few answers out of the ones willing to talk. It was usually ranting and madness, but it satisfied his questions. 

The door on the very end did not have a slide-slat. It had extra-heavy locks and warnings, but even less information in the file as to why. Having an enigma to puzzle over was alright for a while, but his curiosity never faded. It built and built like water pressure behind a kinked hose. 

When it got to be too much, he unlocked the door. The guard just wanted a quick peek.

Blitzwing almost got out that time.

 

**23.**   
“Get up.”

The whisper felt its way around the room, slipping in the beads of fluids pattering to the floor to the rhythmic pulse of a fuel pump. It hesitated on the body, then met and twined around its fellow whispers coming around the opposite direction. 

“Get up.”

Trip, trickle, patter, splat. The whispers explored the corners, played under the berth, crawled across the table, and skipped back under it toward their owner. Only to be pushed away again.

“Get up.”

They bounced, always returning to their source but sent back out again. Never allowed to come to rest. Never giving up. Not like the body on the floor with its purple emblem and treachery now lying dormant.

“Get up.”

He wasn’t taking death lying down. Not like the Decepticon who’d landed the lethal blow on him. The look of shock on the mech’s face almost made this worth it. It was like the stupid ‘Con literally hadn’t believed anyone could take him down for good. Well, he didn’t have that shock. He’d always known playing the game the way he did would get him killed. 

Yet he still whispered, “Get up.”

The whispers twined and pulled around him, refusing to let him die like this. They nagged him; they wouldn’t let him die here gurgling on vital fluids, drowning and out. He’d taken the hit, but he wasn’t going down.

“Get up.”

When they found Jazz, he was standing. He’d gotten up.

 

**24.**  
Speculation always haunted battlefield medics, but Ratchet found the choice wasn't hard when it came down to it.

One-fourth of a breem until Prime bled out. There were too many holes to patch. Ratchet couldn’t save him, not that way, and fuel levels were too low to support the Autobot leader even if the holes were closed in time. His kit had been emptied early on in the battle, leaving no emergency energon on hand, and the medic had to think fast.

Six breems until back-up arrived, and First Aid's emergency kit was always fully stocked. The thought etched its way across his circuits: Prime had to make it that long.

_Prime_ had to make it that long. 

Ratchet opened his lines and spliced them in, then positioned himself so gravity would take over when his fuel pump slowed for statis lock. Eerily calm as his life drained into the still body beneath him, he started soldering the holes as fast as he could. He wouldn't be able to close nearly enough of them to stop the massive fluid loss -- but he could slow the flood, just enough. 

He stayed conscious for another three breems, working with frantic speed and steady calm the whole time. He stayed online for another one and a half breems after that. His body gravity-transferred energon for the remaining one and a half breems, slumped carefully over his leader’s body until First Aid arrived.

Too late for the old medic, but Prime was still alive.

Not a hard choice at all.

 

**25.**  
 _"It kills,"_ the Prime had whispered to him, once upon a battlefield when secrets could be shared between the gunshots. _"It saves us all, but it kills me."_

Jazz hadn't understood. Now he did. Unfortunately, he did.

"Until all are one," he said, taking up the Matrix of Leadership, and the heavy weight of past Primes toppled down into him. Their accumulated wisdom and memories fell through the fragile mind of this single mech like a meteor through cobwebs. History's all, upon one. Remaking the many into an individual, and destroying him in their making.

Jazz, dying beneath them to become Prime.

 

**26.**  
The Senate called it mercy. Ratchet called it a monstrosity and refused to participate in the reprogramming of the prisoners. Prowl called it efficiency.

With the dull red optics of machines upon him, however, he might call it something else. The Decepticons were mechs, but the intelligence had been removed. The threat was gone. Their bodies were rebuilding Cybertron in payment for their past destruction. 

Megatron had, the Senate pointed out, been a miner replaced by automation. Making him part of the automatic machinery that had replaced him was poetic justice. 

There was a Decepticon that took the toll fares down on the intercity speedway, now. He'd been a flyer once. It apparently tickled the Senate's sense of humor to assign a flying machine to work on a road.

Prowl went by him sometimes, stopping at the booth to pay his toll. One hand extended automatically, scanning the passcard. A faint flicker of red as numbers clicked over behind the blank optics, matching individual card-codes to credit data, subtracting the correct amount, and then the hand extended the card again. 

Prowl wondered who he'd been, what he'd been like before the failed rebellion, as he took the card back. He wondered at the efficiency of machines versus mechs, and the Senate's strange idea of mercy. 

He wondered, and he drove on.

 

**27.**  
He was perfect.

Her fingers spread over his plating, feeling for the faint grittiness marking sanded-out patches of rust painted over before the nanites properly healed. She sought the tiny dimples that age granted, where dents had been punched into the old plating so many times that self-repair gradually began rewriting indentation into the schematics. She flexed his wrist, moving his hand about to make the joint squeak, but it stayed silent. 

She stretched up and rested her cheek against his, looking over him for hints of age and weakness, the past and experience, but the evidence had been taken away. She inhaled deeply, but the stinging chemical scent of his cy-gars had dissipated. She listened for the stories, but the air was empty. 

The stories were finished. The cy-gars had been thrown away. The body had been rebuilt, erasing the past that had marred it. All the imperfections were gone.

Kup was perfect, now, as only the dead could be, and Arcee mourned him for his imperfections.

 

**28.**  
The trouble wasn't the religious nuts. Sure, they'd been dead-set on executing Springer for his blasphemy. He’d taken Primus' name in vain when he dropped a loader box on his foot. Okay, so they'd had him tied up and helpless while they started an elaborate rite to appease Primus with his ritual death. But, c’mon! This was a Tuesday. This kind of stuff happened on Tuesdays.

Honestly, as a Wrecker, Springer had been in worse situations. He might be hard-pressed to actually come up with one at the moment, but Kup could probably produce three examples on demand.

It wasn't the nutso cultists that were the problem. Springer had been late for his own execution many times, mostly on Tuesdays. He was never on time on Tuesdays. That was the trouble. Escaping was a given, really, since inescapable deathtraps were more of a Thursday thing. However, the method of escape had turned out to be the more problematic part this Tuesday. Not in terms of “I, Springer, being sound of body and mind, hereby bequeath my gun collection to Kup and a foot up the aft to Roddy.” 

More along the lines of “I, Springer, being sound of body and completely out of my mind, hope someone gets Starscream out of me before I _really_ get in trouble!”


End file.
